While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist’s the
piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies
drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin’s expedition had brought
everything to a halt.
You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He
was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater
triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the
menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion’s cage,
how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one
aims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so
on... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge
about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so
he spoke of these matters with much authority.
Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with
his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a
moving description of all the dangers which awaited him “Over there”
He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers
poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions
and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions
of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating
season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from the
table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the
lion, the noise of the rifle “Pan! Pan!” The whistle of the bullet.
Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces
are grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the
ladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather
brandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next
room, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startled
out of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened
demand lights.
Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to
which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that
the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions
had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps
by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and
by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it had
actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin
had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had
not. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunter
had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.
“This will turn out to be another Shanghai.” Said Costecalde, smiling,
and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost
their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club,
on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking
remarks, “Et autremain, what about this trip then?” At Costecalde’s
shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their
leader.
Then there were the epigrams. President Ladevèze who in his spare time
dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which
was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise
whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa.
Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never
went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This
song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the
stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door
would chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe
distance because of the double muscles.
The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.
Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in
spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;
but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned
on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation
and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting
their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was
trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin’s
head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving
brush and shouting “Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not
pin-pricks!” Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks
tall.
Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,
the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. “He’s a
stout fellow,” He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth
a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
chemist.
The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African
journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,
he decided to speak.
One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,
with every button fastened “Tartarin!” said the former captain, with
authority, “Tartarin, you must go!” and he stood, upright and rigid in
the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
All that was implied in that “Tartarin you must go” Tartarin understood.
Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his
pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,
so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white
blinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the
little garden. Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his
hand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically,
“I shall go, Bravida.” And he did go as he had said he would. Though not
before he had gathered the necessary equipment.
First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and
with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The
lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin
a magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to
Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets
to make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be
erected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas,
a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally,
Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster,
pills and lotions. All these preparations were made in the hope that
by these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury of
Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had raged
unabated by day and by night.